


Queen Anne's Lace

by mxkeclemmings



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Homelessness, Michael Needs a Hug, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:34:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxkeclemmings/pseuds/mxkeclemmings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>michael likes flowers but his parents don't like him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen Anne's Lace

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a fiction project for english. it sucks.

Michael was walking, trudging along the side of the highway with his ratty backpack bumping against his spine. Stepping with one foot in front of the other, he focused solely on getting to his destination. He only tripped once, stumbling slightly over his long, gangly limbs. As he continued his trek to his favorite spot under the freeway bridge, the temperature began dropping drastically, causing Michael to shiver violently in his flimsy tee-shirt and worn blue jeans. 

He slumped to the ground when he reached his spot, limp and exhausted. Michael’s stomach rumbled ferociously. Dirty fingernails picked absently at the skin stretched against the jutting lines of his ribs. He sighed to himself, thinking of home. 

Michael had grown up in an overbearingly religious family that composed of weekly excursions to church, nightly recitations of Grace around the table, and insane, judgmental parents who critiqued every move that Michael made. Michael was sure he didn't believe in God, and that disbelief spiraled into constant anti-religious rebellious streaks that left his parents floundering for control. Instead of studying the Biblical texts his parents would throw his way, Michael spent his time reading literary classics that he’d steal from the school library. He enjoyed symbolism. 

Middle school was far too elementary for Michael. Sneaking big books on chaos theory or his worn copy of Jane Eyre under the table during class was almost second nature. He always joked with himself, laughing about how he could most definitely teach the teachers much more than they were teaching him. When Michael got home from school each day, he'd talk and talk and talk to his parents, sharing stories he'd read and reiterating information while gesturing wildly with his pale, spidery hands. His mom barely pretended to listen, too engrossed in cooking dinner than listening to her only son; being ignored was disheartening, but it didn't discourage Michael from trying. 

Sometimes, Michael thought he would never be loved the way a child was supposed to. He’d overhear secret conversations between his parents, whispers about a son they'd never wanted, and the burden of a mistake they wished they'd never made. Things became duller. To escape the relenting chatter that flowed out of Michael’s mouth, his parents began shoving him into his room and locking the door, yelling at him to do his homework. If they had listened, they would have known Michael had finished the entire sixth grade curriculum before the year was half way over. 

Trapped between the drab, brown walls of his bedroom, Michael developed a strange addiction to beauty. He would rarely get the pleasure of seeing true, raw beauty, and he craved it. There were times that he would catch glimpses of beautiful things: his mothers’s pearl necklace, or the way the wind blew gusts of rain droplets against his window at night, creating a steady rhythm that Michael would hum along to. Things held so much allure in Michael’s eyes—simple things like the silky strands of a stranger’s hair to more complex things like the blunt ideals of Nihilism—so much so that he ran away to go find the fleeting beauty he coveted.

Michael ran away when he was thirteen. He was found in an unused lot just blocks away from his house. He was carrying bundles of flowers he had collected from around his neighborhood. The flowers spilled out of coat pockets and surrounded Michael with a halo of delicate petals. His mother had found him in the field. Michael had tried to explain to her that flowers had meanings, and that they were symbols, and that they were so important and relevant to the world around them—he had stolen a book on flower symbology from the library. Of course, his mother did not understand Michael’s unusual ways. When offered a sprig of lavender, she promptly threw it to the ground, fuming at her only son. She rejected the lavender, a physical representation of admiration and love. 

When his mom dragged him home afterwards, flowers and feelings were forgotten. His parents were mad—more angry that he'd ever seen. His dad screamed and yelled and pushed and hit. They took his books away even though he was only half way done with Treasure Island. They wouldn't let Michael leave his room for anything except school and church. He was to be home at exactly the same time everyday after school, or else he was to be punished. 

With nothing to do all day but sit in his room, Michael became obsessive. He'd clean and organize his room to the point of exhaustion. He'd pick the hairs off his arms and legs, counting them and watching as tiny pin-pricks of blood would rise to the surface. He took up art and would draw flowers on the walls, trying desperately and meticulously to emulate as many beautiful things as he could. 

 

It got to be too much. 

 

Michael couldn't stand being locked in his room. He couldn't pick at his now mangled skin; it was getting infected. His room had nothing to be cleaned. He had used up all the space on his walls. He missed beauty. He needed to escape. 

Throwing all of his pent up rage and obsessiveness together, Michael formulated a foolproof plan to run from his parents clutches. He waited until they were asleep one night, and at exactly one o’clock in the morning he had jimmied the lock on his door, slipping silently into the hallway. Creeping down the stairs, Michael avoided all the creaky spots he had efficiently mapped out. He made it to the kitchen, hastily stuffing a backpack full of food before making his way to the front door. He was half way there when something caught his eye. There, sitting innocently in a neat pile on the coffee table, were his books. Michael stifled a sob of relief. He rushed to get to his prized possessions, but in his haste he failed to locate the loose floorboard in his path and Michael fell with a loud crash. 

He could hear the sound of someone’s heavy footfalls making their way down the hallway above him. 

“Who’s there?” came his father’s booming voice. Michael scrambled to his feet, no longer caring if he made noise. He rushed to shove all of his books into the bag. Thundering footsteps bounded down the stairs and Michael froze like a deer in headlights. 

“What do you think you're doing, boy?” his father asked slowly, his words gravely. “How about you drop that bag and get upstairs. Now!” 

Michael dropped his head at the demand. The cogs in his brain were turning in overtime, furiously working to come up with a way out. 

“Did you not hear me, Mike? I told you to get up those stairs and into your room. You know what’s gonna happen if you don’t,” his father rasped, and the thing was, Michael did know what would happen if he didn't go upstairs. The very thing urging him to go to his room was the same thing that was urging to run, to leave, to never turn back. 

Michael ran. He ran as fast as he could, clambering towards the front door, his father hot on his heels. He tore the door open with a deafening bang, making his ears ring and his head pound. Nothing could stop Michael as he dashed over the welcome mat, down the stone path, and into the street. 

“Don’t think you can come back!” was the last thing Michael heard as he left his confinement behind and ran towards beautiful freedom. 

The only thing Michael seemed to miscalculate, was that the freedom he gained was not in fact beautiful. Michael’s kind of freedom was nights on park benches and in the dumpster behind the local coffee shop that was rarely used. Michael’s freedom was dirty clothes and a rumbling stomach. Michael’s freedom was cold. He was so cold.

Of course there were some perks to not being trapped inside four walls. He was free to pick as many flowers as he pleased, and he began pressing them in his books. Michael didn't have to go to church; the ever-imposing Him wasn't forced down his throat anymore. He wasn't forced to do anything.

But the perks were no match for the cold. Its icy fingers would creep down his pale skin, raising goosebumps and the occasional blueish tint in its wake. Michael’s biggest fear was no longer his parents, but freezing to death instead. The cold sank into his bones, and Michael knew he had to do something.

With all the courage in the world, Michael went home. 

He stood in front of the door, one hand clutching at his jean clad thigh, the other gripping tightly at a bouquet of flowers. He lifted his free hand, shakily bringing it towards the door and knocking lightly. No one answered. He rapped his knuckles on the door again—harder this time. Michael heard footsteps on the other side, close in rhythm to the pounding of his heart. The door’s lock clicked and it creaked open, reveling his mother’s familiar face. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked, eyes dark. 

“It’s cold outside,” Michael responded. 

“That isn't my problem,” she spat, moving to shut the door. Michael was quicker. He wedged his foot between the door and the frame, effectively blocking it from being shut. 

“Please just let me get a coat!” Michael pleaded, angry, desperate tears brimming in his eyes. 

“Get out, Mike. You know you're not welcome,” she kicked his foot away from the door.

“I brought you—” the door was slammed in his face. 

“I brought you flowers,” Michael whispered to the door, wiping a stray tear from his cold cheek. He looked solemnly at the bundle of flowers in his shaky grasp. They were white. White flowers were typically flowers of forgiveness. They were also Queen Anne’s Lace, a delicate breed that symbolized sanctuary and serenity. Michael crouched down, arranging the flowers in a tidy pile on the welcome mat. He stood up slowly. His wild hair fluttered in the freezing wind, making a tangle of white-blonde strands. Michael turned away from his house, walking down the stone path and into the frigid night. He never looked back.

**Author's Note:**

> should I maybe write a part 2 w/ the boys???? Idk


End file.
